A reflection on time, memories, and what we pass along.
I was catching up with my sister earlier in the week and asked if she’d read my last post about the farm. She had, said it brought back a lot of memories, and then asked something that sat with me.
“Do you think our kids will have something as special as that? Something they’ll remember that will leave such an impact?”
A few days later, I was having coffee with a colleague I’d worked with while at Whole Foods. A lifelong Texan from a multi-generational Texas family. She shared a story about a place her grandparents had when she was growing up and how those memories moved her and her husband to buy a small spot along the Guadalupe. A place for their kids to grow up and make memories.
Two conversations, just days apart, both circling around the same idea: legacy. Not in the financial or estate-planning sense, but the quieter, more personal kind. The legacy of memories, stories, and shared experiences that last long after we’re gone.
Those conversations come at a time when I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of legacy I’ll leave behind. They reminded me of my journey down this path a couple years ago when I first caught the episode with author Bill Perkins on Andrew Yang’s podcast. The timing of this episode, Getting More Out of Life couldn’t have been more perfect. I’d been pondering what the “second half of my life” should be focused on and how to find more happiness, purpose, and meaning in the years ahead.
In the episode, Bill talked about his book Die With Zero. He makes the case that time, energy, and health are finite currencies; and that if we wait too long to “start living”, we risk saving up experiences for a future version of ourselves that may never arrive.
It hit me hard. Like most people, I grew up thinking about legacy in the practical sense: saving, planning, preparing... squirreling away acorns... building a "nest egg". And while there’s wisdom in that, Die With Zero reminded me that the most meaningful thing we can leave behind isn’t money or property; it’s stories, laughter, lessons, and memories. It's those lived-experiences we are likely to value the most as we near our final breadth.
I know that’s not easy to focus on when affordability and uncertainty are front of mind for most. When bills, mortgages, and responsibilities weigh heavy; “investing in experiences” can sound out of reach or even indulgent. But what Perkins was really saying is that our most precious resource isn’t money, it’s time. The vitality we have right now won’t last forever. We should enjoy the time we have now, with the ones we love. Our loved ones will cherish the time with us, and when taking stock of one's life it will be those memories we cherish and not the money we'll gift to our loved ones.
That message reframed how I think about parenting, about raising two little Texans who are growing up far from where my own story started, and giving my kids lived experiences with friends and family.
My kids were both born in Austin, TX. They’ll say “y’all” without irony. They’ll think “cold” means 55 degrees. And yet, they’ll grow up knowing all about Wisconsin; cheering for the Packers, eating cheese curds, and hearing stories about my wife’s and my childhoods up north.
I want them to feel connected to where my roots come from, but even more, I want them to have stories of their own: campouts, road trips, backyard projects, and everyday adventures that become the raw material for their memories. The kind of things they’ll talk about decades from now when they tell their own kids their most cherished moments.
And now that I’ve been in Texas for more than a decade, I’ve come to appreciate some of its own traditions around legacy and family. This weekend is Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), a tradition deeply rooted in Mexican culture, where families build ofrendas to honor loved ones who’ve passed - and this only deepens my reflections of last week and the week ahead.
I remember the first time I saw an ofrenda that really moved me... up close at Chuy’s Tex-Mex, of all places. They had (and still have) an altar set up for Elvis. It was bright and joyful and oddly touching. It made me smile, but it also hit me on a deeper level because it reminded me of my dad. And to this day, every time we’re at Chuy’s I think of my Dad... more than the King. Sorry Elvis ;).
My dad, in his “before-children” days, was a lead singer in a Country Western band... and he is an Elvis superfan. At every wedding you can count on him to grab the mic at some point and sing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” It’s a moment everyone waits for, not because he’s a master Elvis impersonator (though he does a pretty darn good job), but because it’s pure joy. It’s his tradition and it’s something that his children, grandchildren, and friends cherish and have had the joy to share with him over many years.
So on the drive down to Chuy’s today to snap a photo of Elvis (the one above), explaining to my kids why we're making a special trip to take a picture of an ofrenda of Elvis, it made me realize that traditions like Día de los Muertos aren’t just about remembering the dead; they’re about making sure we cherish the time we have together, either making memories or keeping the spirit and legacy of those who are important to us alive through song, story, action, and laughter.
It reminded me that maybe the best way to build a legacy is to spend more of my time making it, while I still can.
That’s part of what inspired me to get more involved this year, to help make a difference here in Texas. I want to leave a legacy for my kids that sets them up for a brighter future: a community, a state, and a country they can be proud of. What really matters: family, community, and connection can’t be easily passed down through a will. It’s passed down through action, love, time, and the examples we set.
So as we head into Día de los Muertos this weekend, I’ll be thinking about legacy not as something written on paper, but as something lived in the hearts and minds of others. I'll also be watching the Disney movie Coco, like we do each year around Halloween. A beautiful story centered around Día de los Muertos and how music and tradition connect families. If you haven’t seen it, make sure to check it out.
For my sister, maybe the memories from our family farm were always more about the family (the how) than the farm (the where). As long as we have a place and a reason to gather, and we make the most of that time together, there will always be a legacy of memories to pass along.
And finally, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I won’t have 18 number-one billboard hits, thousands of acres of land, or a billion dollars to pass down. And that’s okay. Maybe my place on my descendants’ ofrenda will be earned not through wealth or fame, but through love, laughter, impact, and the stories left behind.
Family first. Humanity first.
Inspired by Bill Perkins’ “Die With Zero,” Día de los Muertos, and two little Texans.
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